You Who Never Arrived
by more-than-words
Summary: After Ros' death, Harry comes to a decision about Ruth.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I'm attempting to get back on the fic horse with some vaguely nostalgic ramblings, set sometime post-8.8 (I think I may have taken some liberties with seasons/dates etc). Title inspired by a poem of the same name by RM Rilke. Disclaimers and all that jazz apply, as ever.**

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><p>It is a game he used to play in the months after she left, creating for himself a bizarre approximation of a child's make-believe friend that he could never quite bring himself to let go of. He would stand in his office, sit in his armchair or lie in his bed and pretend she was there.<p>

A draft from his office door was the waft of her imagined exit; an unexpected shadow in the corner of his living room was the ghost of her presence; the soft bulk of his duvet behind him was her sleeping warmly by his side.

And even now that she is back, Harry imagines her still. Tonight, in the aftermath of Ros' death and the loss of her weighing heavily on his mind, he magics Ruth up to help fill the absence that long ago lodged itself inside him and grows a little more every time a new tragedy occurs.

It is late summer, and late in the evening. He is sitting in his garden, on the wooden bench that catches the last of the sun before it finally dips below the houses and departs for the night. He has his eyes closed, and one hand is wrapped around a cold glass filled with ice and whiskey.

In his mind, she is sitting with him, and it makes him feel better. He feels the warmth of the sun on his right shoulder and imagines it is her head resting against him. The frond of the leafy plant that is tickling his cheek is a wayward strand of her hair. The scent of his neighbour's honeysuckle, drifting in on a light breeze, is her perfume. Her smile and voice are conjured entirely from memory, and the completeness of the illusion helps to ward off the chill that is starting to seep into the air.

He rests his third finger on the rim of his glass and imagines the crystal is really metal: a ring. He wonders what they would do after leaving the garden for the night. He wonders what they would talk about, whether they'd bicker over the washing up after dinner (almost certainly), which side of the bed she likes to sleep on…

It occurs to him that he might not have to pretend anymore. Lately, there have been signs. Lingering looks and small touches that might not seem much but, given everything that has happened, mean the world. They are not on different sides of the continent any longer, pushed apart and left only with memories.

Now there is a chance for new memories, if he's lucky.

Harry shifts on the wooden bench and it dislodges the plant that had been resting against his cheek. It breaks the fragile illusion and he opens his eyes, shifting out of the remains of the sunlight, no longer wanting to feel the taunting warmth when it isn't of the kind he is looking for. It's not enough. The incoming cool of the night cannot be ignored when she isn't really there. He wants her there, with him.

And, just like that, he makes his decision.

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><p><strong>There may be potential for one or two more chapters if anyone's interested :) <strong>

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews! This bit went a bit angsty, oops. It's set during series 9, so vague spoilers for that… Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>And, just like that, the chance is taken away.<p>

There is one moment, all too fleeting, standing in the graveyard, when he thinks that there might be a chance. The words are out of his mouth but she has yet to give her answer and in that second anything is possible. It is one slight moment when he holds out his hand and he thinks she might reach out to take it but, for whatever reason, she fails to reach out, too.

After the rejection, all he's left with is absence and the weight of the responsibility of his job, and it isn't nearly as manageable as it once was.

In the aftermath, he goes through the days not allowing himself to imagine or remember the promise of what might have been. He sits in the garden, on the wooden bench in the last of the evening sun and he keeps his eyes wide open. There is no more pretending or conjuring of ghosts; he can't afford the pain. He wonders if all along he has been a fool and he realises that yes, actually, because anyone in love is a fool.

But that's okay. Fools in love are fine. What's not okay is the implicit understanding that they'll carry on as always, as colleagues, as though nothing has happened. And it's that – the thought that maybe he has been _made_ a fool of, however unintentionally – that jars him.

Luckily, work is amply busy for a while that it provides sufficient distractions from everything that has happened, at least most of the time. Work has always been his fall back. But then, finally, even that safety net is taken away and it is work that drags everything he has tried so hard to push away back to the surface; all of his efforts to forget (and really, he has to admit to himself in his more honest moments that they have been, at best, half-hearted) suddenly count for nothing when there is even a whisper of a threat against Ruth.

Lucas has her because of him, and he can think of nothing else. He wonders what the two of them might be talking about, if they're talking at all. He isn't sure he wants to know, but it's better than dwelling on the fact that he hadn't even hesitated when he got the phone call; Harry simply capitulated to everything that Lucas wanted.

It's in the back of his mind, all the while, that if he didn't know what he did about Albany, he wouldn't be able to do this. If it was real… he lets the thought hang there. There isn't time to muse on it, not yet. She's still there and, while she is, there will always be the suggestion of something else. Something more, something better… something for them. He'll never let go of that.

It's only afterwards, when he's found Ruth and it's all over that he wonders if his actions today might well be the thing that drives her away for good.

With the threat of it hanging in the air, he reaches for his whisky and pours himself another drink.

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><p><strong>Happier, fluffier chapter 3 coming up next :)<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you once again for all the exceedingly lovely comments. And now for some slightly hesitant fluff, set sometime after S9... Not sure I'm totally wild about how it came out, but I'll leave you to judge ;) **

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><p>The changes come slowly and, at first, they are so subtle that they are easily dismissible. A look held for longer than is normal in a professional setting; a hesitant smile when no one else is around to see it; an unexpected cup of tea placed on his desk along with the nightly collection of files for him to read and sign.<p>

They are all acts that he could take as sympathy or an expression of pity for the intensity of the investigation he is currently facing as a result of his act of treason.

He hates that word, treason. It makes him think of plots and espionage and evil intent, when really all he intentionally committed was an act of love. The people on his board of enquiry don't see it that way, though. And, for the longest time, he thinks that Ruth doesn't see it that way, either.

But then the small changes start and Harry begins to wonder if maybe she does get it, after all. Or, the devil's advocate in him whispers, maybe she just feels guilty.

Yet even after the enquiry is over and he has got off with a much lighter telling off than he imagined, thanks to some cunning antics from his team and a well-timed foiling of a terrorist plot by himself that lends him some much-needed goodwill, the changes stick around. And, gradually, they become more overt – impossible to dismiss.

Ruth doesn't avoid him like she once did; she actually seeks him out, on the roof and by the Thames and in his office, after hours. They never talk about much, they're both clearly too nervous to take much more of a risk so soon (although really, Harry thinks, this saga has been going on for the better part of a decade; there have been three prime ministers and innumerable scandals in the time it's taken him and Ruth to bumble their way back and forth, only to end up as more-than-but-not-actually-practically-much-more-than-colleagues). But the gestures are there and, slowly, they effectively start over again.

He thinks that they should have done it much sooner. The whole thing is becoming fun again. Now when she comes into his office, he doesn't automatically steel himself for barbs being flung from every direction and line up retorts to use in response. Now, he looks forward to what she might say and takes a perverse pleasure in reading between the lines.

He's fairly certain that there are lines to read between, at any rate.

It's odd, in a way, having something approaching a personal relationship forming between them again, after so long of one existing only in his head. It's odd, and it starts so unexpectedly that he still can't allow himself to relax into it entirely, but it's lovely all the same.

Their topics of conversation eventually start to move away from work to good-natured chats about stories in the news, their personal efforts to stave off the effects of energy bill price rises, and their respective pets. The tone lightens; they both fall a little more.

One night, Ruth comes into his office wearing her coat and holding her bag. He's expecting her to say good night and is holding a small internal debate as to whether offering a lift would be seen as inappropriate, when suddenly and quite deliberately, she asks him if he'd like to go for a drink.

The part of him that houses the years' worth of hurt makes him hesitate, but then Ruth speaks again.

She tells him that she wants to talk about something important, that she's been thinking about things and she'd just really like to… talk to him. Her tone is unreadable but the look in her eyes is startlingly, brilliantly clear. She smiles at him and, just like that, he's sold.

Harry stands and pulls on his coat, crossing his office as he does. They walk across the Grid together in silence and then on, out of Thames House. As soon as they leave the building, Ruth tentatively slips her arm through his and he wonders if maybe, just maybe, they might be able to start collecting happy memories again.

Going for a drink seems as good a place as any to start.

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><p><strong>I <strong>_**think**_** this is the end, although it's not the ending I planned, so there might be another chapter… maybe. Hmm.**

**Thank you for reading!**


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